Man in The Window
by abbeypop
Summary: She saw too much but couldn't look away. She never watched someone like him and she would never forget what she saw
1. Chapter 1

She liked watching people, day or night, through her window into theirs with a pair of binoculars. She enjoyed seeing people at their most vulnerable, where they were in their own environments and under the impression that no one was watching. She sometimes would make up stories, elaborate ones, about the people she watched in an attempt to put the strange things she had witnessed into some kind of context. Sometimes she saw things she didn't want to see, like the old man who would regularly jerk off to a pretty news anchor, or the woman who seemed to enjoy talking to her collection of dolls. She never judged them though, whoever she saw or whatever they did.

Sometimes she would fancy a particular person and watch them constantly. Those were the people who seemed to pique her interest the most, the ones who she could watch for hours on end, regardless of what they were doing. These were also the people who seemed to never close their curtains all the way, inadvertently giving her access to their most intimate doings.

Recently there had been a man that she took a specific interest in. She had watched this man before here and there. He lived with an older woman and seemed to never eat. Sometimes he danced around in his underwear, other times he would stay up late scribbling into a journal. On a specific occasion she watched him dance in his living room with a gun, he accidentally fired it and the sound startled her. She also had watched him touch himself, on a number of different occasions. She felt guilty about that but never looked away. It wasn't until she recognized him on a clip played during the Murray Franklin Show that she really started paying attention.

Her intrigue for this man became definite on random cloudy afternoon. She sat in front of her window with binoculars fixed to her eyes. He was sitting in front of a mirror applying white face paint, taking long drags of his cigarette in between strokes. She observed him with acute attention, taking note of the ritualistic way he applied the makeup, It was almost alluring. Suddenly he got up and went to the door, opening it to reveal two men, one big and one small. She watched curiously as he welcomed the men in, they appeared to conversate. The exchange was brief and then it happened, the thing she never thought would happen in all her time as a window watcher. He did it once in the neck and once in the eye with what appeared to be a knife or scissors. She gawked at the blood and her mouth dropped open when he slammed the big man's head against the wall, according to her count, approximately ten times. Horrified but enthralled, she continued watching and to her surprise he let the small one go. He was alone again.

She put her binoculars down and retreated back into her room, closing the curtains behind her. She didn't pick up the phone, instead she sat on her bed and turned on the tv. Not wanting to process the events that had just conspired, she closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep in the dead of afternoon.

After a few hours her sleep was broken by the sound of a loud audience. She strained at the tv, it was the Murray Franklin Show. She slowly got up to turn it off but stopped when a man waltzed onto the stage sporting a full face of clown makeup and a striking red suit. It was him, she recognized him immediately. Surprised but mostly confused she watched as he planted a big kiss on the woman guest and sat down. He beamed with confidence and she watched on intrigued. The events that happened next shocked her to the core but resonated with her deeply. It was outrageously disturbing but she remained fixated on the tv, almost amused by the fact that she had witnessed this man commit two murders. It was strange to observe such acts of deviance, but it triggered pequliar feelings of liberation and to some degree, a small amount of attraction. The show cut out and she was left staring at the screen with her heart beating fast and her stomach churning.

She didn't sleep that night. Questions swarmed her head, including the question of whether she would see him again, she wanted to but didn't understand why. It wasn't until she saw him again that she finally understood why he did what he did and why she learned to admire it.


	2. Chapter 2

She was alone, sitting on the couch, hands intertwining with white knuckles. The taste of blood was strong. She licked her lips tasting the warm iron, and the dried blood under her nose cracked and flaked off onto her lap. For weeks now, fires still raged in the streets and the smell of burning plastic remained caught in her throat.

She didn't remember how she got there but she was there in the middle of it all. It was the second week of protests. Surrounded by the sound of blaring sirens and jarring cheers, she watched as people lit fire to cars and smashed windows. They were all clowns. Masks and painted smiles glinted in the crowd as she rolled her eyes back taking it all in.

All of a sudden there was a dull sound and an ache ruminating in her jaw and nose. Warmth traveled through her body as she began to process the pain. A uniformed man had struck her with a biton.

She reached into the back of her jeans and withdrew a gun, fingers already moving instinctively to pull back the hammer, she squeezed the trigger. Everything blurred and that's when the ringing started. She heard a voice call out from next to a body on the pavement,

"He's dead!"

Cheers erupted as the crowd closed in around her. That's when she started running and didn't stop. She had done this before but forgot how long ago it was since the first time.

She didn't remember how she got home. She lost track of time, days rather, as she often did. She tilted her head back and let the static of the television drown out her thoughts. That's when she saw it, out of the corner of her eye, a light flicked on across the street illuminating a window she was familiar with. It had been a while.

Her heart started racing as she scrambled to the chair by her window, she gripped the binoculars and held them to her eyes. She saw him dressed in white. She watched as he closed the door behind him. He sank to the ground, smiling and laughing, or sobbing, she couldn't tell. A satisfied smile slipped onto her face, she winced at the pain as she let her teeth show and she tasted the blood again.

Something came over her, a hot wave of curiosity. She placed the binoculars down and let her legs carry her out of the apartment. She was now standing in front of the building across from hers. Without thinking she opened the door and found the stair corridor, she began to sprint up the steps, two at a time until she reached level B. She walked down the hallway and counted the doors until she arrived at what she thought to be his door. She leaned in close, pressing an ear to the cold metal, and heard him. Before she could stop herself she started to knock.

His laughter got stuck in his throat at the sound of knocking. He choked and coughed while scuttling to his feet. He was sure that no one followed him back, but fear overwhelmed him as he peeked through the eye hole holding his breath. It was a woman. Dried blood caked her face as she looked nervously back and forth down the hall. She knocked again. His mind raced as he reached for the knob, he slowly turned it and opened the door a crack, only to reveal part of his face.

"Can I help you?" He said with a shaky but firm voice.

She looked deeply into the one eye she could see and smiled.

"You're him." She said breathlessly. "I've seen you, I've watched you. You're the man who killed Murray."

In that moment he shut the door hard.

"Wait! I'm not police! Please let me in I can explain!" She shouted and knocked again.

He let his head hang as a brief chuckel of distress arose in his throat. Against his better judgement he unlatched the chain lock and opened the door once more. He stood in the frame hunched over as he looked down the hallway and back to the woman.

"Who are you?" He said quietly with his voice cracking. He cleared his throat as he waited for the woman to answer. She smiled again, displaying bloody teeth.

"Please let me in, I can explain." She spoke in a whisper, as if she was sharing a secret. He grimaced as he looked down the hallway once again. Denying himself of the satisfaction of slamming the door, he opened it further and gestured her in.

"Who are you?" He asked calmly. She frowned in response. He closed the door and latched the lock. "Did you follow me here? Did the hospital send you?"

"No." she replied as her gaze shifted and settled onto the floor.

Not sure of what to do, he shoved a shaky hand through his hair, smoothing the strands behind his ear. He took a deep breath looked her up and down again. "Then why are you here?"

She looked around the room for an answer and began to walk towards the living room window. He stepped out of her way and remained standing by the door as he watched. She lifted an arm and pointed to the building across the street.

"I live there, and I've watched you, from that window." His eyes followed her arm as she continued to point.

"What do you mean you've watched me?" He asked and let out a bashful giggle. She turned around and met his eyes smiling.

"I like to watch people through my window and I noticed you-" she was cut off before she could finish.

"You noticed _me_?" A child-like smile slipped onto his face

"Yes, how could I not? I saw that clip on Murray and recognized you, so I started watching you more from my window." Her smile dropped and her eyes met the floor when she realized how embarrassing it was to admit this out loud. But she continued, "then I saw you on Murray again, except you were different this time, it was captivating."

He felt blood rush to his cheeks as he closed his eyes and smiled, letting out a happy sigh. "_I know. _Can you believe I did all this?" gesturing to the window where the streets below remained filled with crowds of clowns. He let out a true laugh and looked at the woman once more. "So, you've watched me before? What have you seen me done, huh?"

He dug into his pocket and retrieved a pack of cigarettes, taking one out and lighting it as he waited for the woman to respond. She watched as he took a deep drag, silence filled the air, except for the quiet crackle of embers, he took another drag.

"Would you like one?" He asked holding one out. She took it out of his hand without saying anything and pulled a lighter out of her back pocket. She took a long drag and began to speak,

"Well, I've seen you do a couple noticeable things," she took another drag and started pacing, "I've seen you dance, which is very impressive," he smiled at this while she continued, "and I've often seen you with an older woman, but I think I have seen something that I'm sure I wasn't meant to see."

He took a seat on the couch and leaned back crossing his legs, his cadence was slow as he carefully spoke, articulating his words, "yeah? And what did you see?"

She spoke slowly, "I saw you kill that man, the day you killed Murray." He raised his eyebrows in response.

"You saw that, really?" he asked smiling. She nodded slowly and shifted her gaze back towards the window.

"You started a movement you know," she spoke softly, "things are changing because of you."

He stifled a laugh, clearing his throat and speaking again, as if saying a punchline, "I started it but they are finishing it." He sucked on the last inch of cigarette before flicking it to the floor, "I heard someone shot another cop tonight. Can you believe that?" With closed eyes he laughed again, then returned his gaze to the woman.

"I know. I was the one who shot the cop," she said smiling. He giggled and lit another cigarette.

"Is that so? Now you came here to thank me or something?" he asked gently.

"Actually I did," she answered mirroring his tone, "and I wanted to meet the man responsible for the greatest revolution Gotham will ever see."


	3. Chapter 3

She was sitting in front of a mirror framed with flickering incandescent bulbs. The room was stiff with the smell of tobacco and cheap perfume. There was a pair of girls sitting on the couch behind her, they counted stacks of money out of big black plastic bags as she applied a deep blush to her cheeks. The Minx Carbert was as cliché as it sounds. It was past midnight, she didn't recall leaving his apartment. She looked into her reflection straining to remember. Everything was blurred, memories with soft edges faded into each other, unrecognizable and out of reach.

"Gentlemen, let's give a warm welcome to our next dancer, she's beautiful, she's strange, and she's got discounted lap dances for seniors, it's the magnificent and mysterious Carmen!"

Sparse claps filled the room as she walked across the stage. Jazz music swelled as the spotlight settled on her, she took a deep breath, and began. It was second nature at this point, dancing for the male gaze, which she felt burn a hole through her body. The lights were hot, and sweat started to form at her hairline as she observed the shadowed faces that littered the crowd. Men who all looked the same stared back with lazy drunken smiles. She moved across the stage hypnotically and mindless, losing herself in the sultry music.

"Alright let's give it up for Carmen! If you're interested in a lap dance from this lovely peach please go to the back room where she will be waiting!"

No one clapped as she finished her set and stepped down from the stage. She made her way to the back room where worn red velvet curtains took the place of a door and a dark blue neon light flickered in the corner. She took a seat on the couch and waited. A couple of minutes passed before the owner walked in. He looked like the rest of the men who frequented the club, sad, old and lonely.

"Hey doll, there is a strange looking guy here who wants to pay for a dance but doesn't want you to dance. It's weird, I know, but it's money hun so just give him the time and shout if he tries to do anything. He doesn't look right to me."

"Alright, thanks for the heads up Mike." She sighed and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the adjacent table as he left the room. She struck a match and inhaled deeply relaxing back into the chair. The strange man then entered, head down and hands buried deep in his pockets. She took another drag of her cigarette and stood up. It was him.

He wasn't wearing the sterile white he had on before, instead he sported a brown sweater with a white collared shirt peeking out underneath accompanied with polyester blue dress pants. His salt and pepper whiskers framed his worn face and hollowed cheeks. He shifted his feet in the uncomfortable silence as she remained standing and staring at him. He mumbled a stuttered hello and passed a hand through his hair anxiously, waiting for her to say something, anything, back.

She broke the awkward silence, "what can I do for you?"

"Nothing," he stuttered, "I don't want anything like that I mean." His gaze fell to the floor as he felt his cheeks grow red. He was different, he wasn't the man in the pretty red suit and painted face, this man was meek and subtle.

"Then why are you here?" She responded, genuinely confused.

"You told me you worked here and invited me to the show tonight, remember?" His words sounded hopeful.

She didn't remember saying that at all. But then again she barely remembered going to his apartment in the first place, or how she got to work, she could only recall vague bits and pieces that came in and out like a dream she couldn't shake.

"Well thank you for coming, I appreciate it very much." She forced a smile and sat back down. He remained standing as he watched her light another cigarette.

He cleared his throat, taking his hands out of his pockets and taking a seat on the table with crossed legs. He leaned in close, looking into her eyes which were framed with swirls of smoke, "you know, you're a really good dancer." He smiled confidently and sat up straight, "those other girls don't dance like you do."

She smiled at this and let out a stifled laugh. "Thank you, that's very sweet. I'm just doing my job."

"Well you're very good at it." he said quietly, smiling wide and almost whispering. Suddenly he spotted the pack of cigarettes on the table and took one without asking, he placed it between his lips and leaned in close to the woman, silently asking her to light his cigarette with hers. She got the hint and leaned in. She had never been that close to him, even when she was at his apartment they kept a safe distance. Their heads were almost touching when the cigarette lit and she could smell his woody floral cologne. It was subtle but recognizable and when mixed with smoke it was intoxicating, although she refused to admit this to herself.

He took a deep audible drag, leaning back on his free hand, exhaling the smoke slowly. He shifted in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs nervously, but still maintaining a smile. She seemed more reserved than when she was at his apartment, less manic but still blank behind the eyes.

"So," he said cautiously, taking another drag, "I really came here because I wanted to ask you something…" he trailed off and began bouncing his legs anxiously. She could sense the unease within him.

"Sure, ask me anything." She said in her most soothing tone, familiar with the terrors of social anxiety, knowing that a calm voice always helps.

"That day, when I killed Murray," he whispered, "and you saw me kill that other man," he looked around the room nervously, "were you scared?" His eyes settled into hers as his lips remained parted, waiting for her to answer.

She stared back at him as she toyed with the cigarette in her hand and the question in her head. She knew the answer to the question but found satisfaction in letting it hang in the air.

"No. I wasn't scared. I was more excited than anything." She said this confidently as she watched a wide smile slip onto his face. "I don't know that man or what he did, but just like Murray, I know he deserved it. And even if he didn't, what I saw reminded me of a part of myself that I've tried so hard to forget. It was liberating."

He was satisfied with this answer and let it show on his face. But his cheeks still burned and legs still bounced. He found himself nervous around women in general, despite being liberated from his past. The old side of him was fighting the new and he wasn't sure who would win. Little did he know, the woman was experiencing the same thing. Both sides of them were evenly odd. They had more in common then they would ever know.

Silence fell as the two just looked at each other. Suddenly Mike popped his head out from behind the curtain, they both turned their gaze to him.

"Eh sorry to interrupt but we got an older gentleman here and he would like a lap dance from you missy. So this guy has gotta go in 5" With that he left the room.

They both stood up awkwardly and he began to speak, "I'm sorry. I'll leave, you're busy I shouldn't have bothered you." He frowned and furrowed his brow as he turned to leave.

"Wait, I'm sorry my boss is a jerk. I get off in a couple hours, I can come over, I mean only if you have anymore questions for me or whatever." She tried so hard not to sound desperate.

He tried to hold back a smile by looking at the floor, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah, I guess I have a couple more questions, you can come over." It was a poor attempt at sounding casual.

They looked at one another again and he threw up an awkward wave as he turned and left. Once alone again she smiled and sat back down. She had emptied her mind once the old man came limping in.


	4. Chapter 4

She was there again, in front of his door, this time clutching a bottle of red wine with one hand and a lit cigarette with the other. It was late, and she had decided to give a couple more lap dances before leaving the club around 2am. She didn't want to but she needed the money. And now she stood in front of his door hoping she wasn't too late. She reached up to knock but hesitated, questioning her motives briefly. She was mostly curious, partially driven by the fact that she couldn't recall inviting him to the club. She hoped she could put the pieces together, maybe talking to him would trigger her memory.

She flicked her cigarette and knocked. The fluorescent lights were humming a soft tune accompanied by the jarring pangs of gunshots and sirens. She regretted staying late, but she still needed money even if the city was burning. She counted as ten long seconds passed. He was probably sleeping.

Suddenly the door opened, causing her to flinch. He looked at the floor smiling and stepped aside ushering her in gently without a word. He was wearing the same pants but with a cream button down and a dark blue vest, which pinched in the back accentuating his boyish silhouette. His hair was still damp and she noticed the thick scent of aftershave as he closed the door behind her.

He turned around and she noticed his freshly shaved face, it looked young and innocent.

"I brought wine," she said quietly while holding up the bottle, "I don't know if you drink, you can have some of course I mean, if you do drink." She stammered over her words painfully.

"That's okay," he said softly, "I don't really drink, but thank you."

She was surprised to hear this. "Are You sure? You're really going to make me drink alone?" The bottle was already open, she took a large sip, raising her eyebrows at him, offering up her most enticing smile. She hated drinking alone, but had gotten used to it.

He opened his mouth to object but refrained and instead walked over to her, taking the bottle out of her hand. He let out a stifled nassely laugh as he rose the bottle to his lips. He took a long gulp and mirrored her smirk. Warmth hit his empty stomach and he took another sip.

He handed her the bottle smiling. "If you want, I can grab us some glasses from the kitchen."

"No, thanks, I prefer the bottle." She took another sip, or a chug rather, and he stared at her intrigued.

"We can sit down if you want." He gestured to the couch as she lifted the bottle to her lips once more. She let out a satisfied sigh after she swallowed and silently took a seat, tipping her head back and closing her eyes

He took a seat next to her, but not too close, and took the bottle out out of her idle hand. She looked up drowsily, watching his throat twitch as he took a few big gulps.

He sighed and placed the bottle down on the coffee table, which was cluttered with newspaper clippings and magazines. She watched as he leaned back into the couch, stretching his legs out. He turned his head and looked at her playfully,

"So, did it bother you?" he asked gently. She pretended not to know what he was talking about and reached for the bottle.

"Did what bother me?" she took another sip of wine and stared at him, hoping he would elaborate. She wanted to hear the words come out of his mouth, her ego needed it.

He lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned in close to her, speaking through his teeth, "when you shot that cop, did it bother you?"

She smiled at him casually, satisfied, and sat up a little. She took another swig and let out a mumbled "no."

He smirked at her response and adjusted his positioning on the couch so he was facing her. "It didn't bother me," he let out a snort of laughter, "when I killed those three guys on the train, or Murray, or Randel, or my mother…" he trailed off mumbling as if reliving a blissful memory.

This was the man she remembered seeing on the Murray show, the one who's confidence seemed to spill from his eyes. The man who came to the club earlier that night was different, less potent, she liked this version better.

Her brows arched in response to this and her lips twitched into a slight smile, "I didn't know you killed your mother," she said casually.

He ran a hand through his hair, "yeahhh," he said sighing, almost bragging. His eyes flickered around the room nervously, "so have _you _killed anyone, I mean besides that cop?" He asked this question nonchalantly, as his fingers tapped on his thigh.

The informal way he delivered such heavy words made her stomach twinge with satisfaction. She never thought she would come across another person like herself, one who took joy in their acts of deviance. The thought of this made her smile.

"the cop wasn't my first," she muttered, with her lips on the bottle. "I've never told anyone about it, but the first one was a while ago, I was younger, but I don't really remember." She tilted her head back and took another long chug of wine, then passed the bottle to him. "I have this memory problem," she continued as he drank, "I lose time, often. I almost blackout, and forget where I'm going or how I got there. That's what happened with the first one."

"Then how do you know it happened?" He asked amusingly while drawing the bottle up to his lips, taking another sip.

"Well," she said hesitantly while looking around the room, "the last thing I remember was that I was in a car, it was dark out, I was covered in blood and the guy next to me was dead." She smirked.

He passed the bottle back to her, "sounds to me like you're a bad date."

She tried to stifle a laugh but couldn't and let out a childish giggle. He grinned back at her.

"You're not going to tell on me right?" She asked playfully.

He flashed a toothy smile, "of course not! As long as you don't tell on me." He winked and dug around in his pockets, pulling out a package of cigs and a lighter.

She placed the bottle down on the coffee table, finally noticing all the clutter. Her eyes scanned the various newspaper clippings, most of which had his mugshot plastered on them. Then she noticed the magazine clippings, and questioned how she hadn't noticed them earlier. Torn pages from Playboy and Hustler were scattered about amidst sloppy cut-outs of nude women. Hard scribbles covered their faces while the rest of their bodies were untainted. She reached out and picked up a page, the woman was fully naked and spread eagle, her head was cut off.

She looked back at him curiously. He was lighting the cigarette now, oblivious to her shuffling through his papers. He took a long drag with eyes closed as she stared at him. Then he looked up and saw what she was doing. She noticed the color drain from his face as he widened his eyes, clearly embarrassed. He started to stutter.

"I-I'm, I'm s-sorry." He let out a snort of pained laughter as he frantically got up and started gathering up the papers on the table. In between the rummaging he covered his mouth hard in an attempt to silence his laughter. She cringed at his clear discomfort.

"No im sorry," she said firmly, "I shouldn't just be going through your things like that, I'm so sorry." He wheezed hard and she reached up and placed a hand on his arm. He tensed up immediately and let out another bout of pained cackles before gathering up the other papers and stumbling into the other room. He slammed the door behind him. She remained seated, listening closely to his muffled howls. The sounds of his distress made a knot form in her stomach, and before she could stop herself, she was at the bedroom door knocking lightly.

"I'm sorry if I upset you, I really am," she said in her most soothing voice, "please, it's nothing to be ashamed about, I have magazines of my own too ya know, please I really didn't mean to upset you, please come out." She didn't recognize the voice that came out of her, it was sweet and forgiving, lacking the harshness she had worked so hard to perfect.

She stepped back from the door as his laughter subsided, taking a moment to debate whether she should just leave and never bother him again. She turned around and walked back to the now empty table, picking up the wine and taking a big chug. Silence had filled the air again and she looked to the door anxiously. She wondered briefly if he would come out and stab her in a frenzied rage. That's what she would have done if a stranger came to her apartment and rummaged through her collection of porn.

She played this image out in her head vividly. The idea of a sharp pain and then the euphoric tingle of blood draining from her body sent a shiver up her neck. She wouldn't mind going out that way, she had always assumed that her life would end in the hands of a violent man, or herself. She wouldn't put up a fight either, she would surrender easily, finding comfort in the fact that she got to share one of her many secrets before settling into the black oblivion of death.

The bedroom door creaked open, bringing her back to reality. He stood in the door frame, hands buried in the pockets of his pants, his fiery gaze fixed to hers. She felt the unease that settled in the space between them, it made her squirm with anxiety. She was ashamed of herself, of how she had made him upset.

She mirrored his posture and hung her head in shame. The wine hit her stomach hard and she felt dizzy with contempt. She wanted to fall to her knees out of absolution. She couldn't fathom why she felt the way she did. She had never felt remorse for making others feel bad, she actually took joy in it, but this was different. She wanted this feeling to go away, it was unfamiliar, unrecognizable. She silently hoped that he would walk over and slap her, she wanted to feel anything other than this feeling. In that moment she had a mad craving to smash something up, a department store, say, or a cathedral, or herself. Anything to escape this feeling.

He was standing in front of her now but her eyes remained fixed on the floor. He reached up and took her chin in his hand, raising her head to meet his eyes. The gentle touch grounded her back to reality and she looked into his eyes.

He smiled softly. "I think it's time for you to go now," he whispered.

His words hit her like a brick to the chest, she opened her mouth to object, but the words never came out. He released her chin and let silence hang in the air as she desperately searched his eyes for an explanation. But there wasn't one, and she knew this.

With that she clutched the wine bottle close to her chest and left his apartment in silence. He followed her to the door and closed it behind her. Alone again in the dim hallway, she took another chug of wine and let herself surrender to the habitual warmth of time beginning to fade.


End file.
